


comme une fleur

by tonightless



Series: The Finite Anthology: 100 Prompts ∞ [Merlin/Arthur] [3]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Boss/Employee Relationship, Eventual Romance, Falling In Love, Fluff, Friends With Benefits, Fuckbuddies, Happy Ending, Idiots in Love, M/M, Modern Era, Sexting, Stylist Arthur, actor Merlin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-25
Updated: 2017-11-25
Packaged: 2019-02-06 16:36:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12821604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tonightless/pseuds/tonightless
Summary: “About Arthur and I?” Not that Merlin doubts quiet, steady Leon, the foil to Arthur’s restlessness. He just wants to avoid the press nightmare and Gaius lecturing him down the phone. “Not that there is ‘Arthur and I’. It’s casual. I mean, we haven’t talked about it—”“You sent flowers,” Leon says, confused.





	comme une fleur

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Prompt #35: Heat.
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> The title is part of a French expression (se pointer comme une fleur) that translates roughly to "to turn up out of the blue".
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> If a GIF I used is yours, let me know, and I'll credit you for it!

 

 

**ೋ**

╔════════════════════╗

  
_“ I am waiting here again  _  
_for you to need me  
and I will track your laylands   _  
_if my compass will allow."_   

—Alex Vargas, Follow You  
  
  
╚════════════════════╝

 

 

 

 

## I.

“I knew this would work,” Arthur says, but when he steps back he eyes the suit as though willing it to defy his expectations. Merlin quirks an eyebrow.

“Are you always this anal when it comes to clothes?” Arthur is too busy checking the creases of the trousers to reply, so Merlin adds, “which I pay you an obscene amount to find, by the way.”

Arthur draws back.

“My fee is well-earned,” and then with a tilt of his head he is peering at Merlin over his translucent glasses. Merlin’s chest tightens with the full heat of Arthur’s gaze on him. He shifts in a way that he hopes isn’t obvious. The gleam in Arthur’s eyes tells him otherwise, and Merlin splutters:

“You’re lucky to have me as a client.”

“Some well-received TV does not a successful career make. Call me when you’re at the Emmys.”

The smirk on Arthur’s face is identical to the one he wore when he offered to blow Merlin last week. Arthur was – despite Gwen’s cautionary warnings and the reputation that preceded him – easy for Merlin to read; a few glances too many led Merlin to take his clothes off as deliberately as possible. Hardly a crime. And it _had_ caught Arthur’s attention (that’s how he got the offer).

Merlin frowns at his reflection. In hindsight, blowing Arthur instead hadn’t been any better for the employer/employee dynamic. At least the adrenaline of it buoyed him for days after.

He glances at Arthur, who is in the middle of explaining something to Gwen. There’s a quiet steel in Arthur’s movements; it’s even hidden in the way he he swirls his espresso in its cup or presses his lips together when deep in thought. Having all that control unravel was a blessing Merlin never knew he needed until his tongue tipped Arthur over the edge.

He realises he’s staring when Leon, shoe boxes tipped against his chest, frowns at him out of the corner of his eye. Merlin snaps his gaze back to his reflection and focuses on the suit. Arthur was right – it works. Miraculously, the burgundy colour does wonders for his pasty complexion, and it fits like a glove.

“Enough checking yourself out, Merlin.” Arthur appears at his side with another suit, this one an unusual teal colour with a knitted tie. “Get changed.”

Merlin narrows his eyes at him. “Do you know how to be nice?”

“No.” With that, Arthur glides away, leaving Merlin laden down with hangers and sexually frustrated. Leon materialises with another set of Oxfords and is about to fetch the hangers for Merlin’s current suit, when the front door thuds shut, and Leon disappears.

“Go away,” Arthur calls over the clicking of heels on wood. Next to him, Gwen clutches her clipboard closer to her chest. “I’m with a client.”

“All work and no play, brother dear.” A dark-haired woman sweeps into the room. “We’re having dinner later. 8pm sharp.”

“I have plans, Morgana.”                          

“Rewatching the rugby does not count.” Morgana points a manicured finger at Arthur, who scowls in response. Thankfully Gwen looks as bemused as Merlin does.

Morgana turns and looks up at Merlin with such intensity he immediately wonders what he could have possibly done wrong.

“Arthur is hopeless at a lot of things,” she drawls, “but he does have a good eye, and his monstrous fee is actually worth it.” There’s the rattle of china, and Leon reappears with a tray topped with a teapot, cup and saucer, sugar bowl, and three Jaffa Cakes on a china plate. “You did a wonderful job in _Camelot_ , by the way,” and then she and Leon have been swallowed by the shadowy back-rooms of Arthur’s house.

It’s only when Arthur mutters something darkly under his breath that sounds suspiciously like _meddling, evil witch_ that Merlin finds his voice.

“Does she always show up unannounced?”

“How else is she meant to catch me off guard?” Arthur downs his espresso with such a sour face Merlin is sure he wishes it were vodka instead. “But she’s right, for once. I’m worth it.”

Merlin rolls his eyes, but inside he is singing.

 

 

## II.

Arthur circles his thumbs around Merlin’s shoulder blades just-so, a moan spilling from Merlin’s lips.

“You sure,” he mumbles into the pillow, “you haven’t done this before?”

“You’re easily impressed.”

“Who says I’m impressed?”

“Aren’t you?”             

“Fuck off.” It’s hard to mean it, though, when Arthur’s fingertips, palms, heels of his hands press the oil into his skin in whirling patterns. Their rhythm of motion and noise lulls Merlin into a doze, and his muscles yield.

“God,” Arthur says, an indeterminable time later, “you’re so tight.”

“’Cause I have to put up with you,” Merlin deadpans, but Arthur sweeps his palms across his skin in such a delicious blend of pressure and motion that Merlin groans into the pillow again.

 

 

## III.

 **?:** _fucking you was the best thing I did all week_

 **M:** _^ creepiest anon text I’ve ever got_.

Arthur sends the eyes-raised-to-the-heavens emoji _._

 **A:** _I did an excellent job_

 **M:** _** adequate_

 **A:** _not what you said at the time_

 **M:** _benefit of hindsight._

_sounds like you need to try again_

_how did even get my number?_

 **A:** _it just appeared in my phone when I started wanking_

Merlin almost chokes on his chewing gum.

 **M:** _you’re fucked up_

 **A:** _still hot though, and I made a wizard joke_

_(appeared in my phone… as if by magic…)_

_besides you’re the one who started a bloody strip tease in front of me_

 **M:** _yes, YOU_

_I’m in a taxi atm_

And then, before he can change his mind:

 **M** : _btw, send pic_

Arthur sends a photo of the floor.

“Arse,” Merlin mutters.

 **M:** _ok_

 _have fun_                              

He locks his phone and turns his head to admire Piccadilly Circus sliding past the window. It can’t hold his attention, though, not when Arthur is getting himself off in another part of the city and Merlin is bored and alone.

 **M** : _I bet you’re thinking about me._

 **A** : _I thought that was obvious._

That does it. If his mother could see what he was typing, Merlin thinks midway, she’d disown him.

 **A** : _don’t stop_

Merlin deliberately waits.

 **M** : _stop what?_

 **A** : _pls_

Merlin bites back a grin and continues. He runs out of steam eventually and rests his head against the window and lets the shuddering glass splinter his thoughts.

 **M:** _Done yet?_

Arthur sends a slew of emojis.

 **M:** _I wish I’d seen it._

Minutes pass. Then:

 **A:** _Me too_.

 

 

## IV.

“You need to relax.”

“If you give me a massage, that’s copying.” Arthur doesn’t look up, still worrying over his notebooks and triple-checking everything is in order. Merlin holds his t-shirt in his hands and wills himself to get dressed, but the tension in Arthur’s shoulders is too much to bear.

He reaches Arthur in a few paces and nuzzles his neck as his hands fall onto Arthur’s waist.

“Relax,” Merlin murmurs, pressing kisses onto Arthur’s skin.

“You’re annoying,” Arthur mutters, but he twists around anyway and his eyes are soft when Merlin takes off his glasses and puts them aside.

Arthur relaxes as Merlin kisses him dry. After rutting against each other and riding the quick, easy orgasms that follow, they fall back to kissing, and it’s languid and lazy and… soft, somehow.

“I’m going to ruin Gucci,” Arthur manages.

“Fuck Gucci.” Merlin stops, though, and goes to clean himself up first. In the bathroom he makes quick work of it, trying to blank out the thoughts swirling in his head, but he knows when he’s back in the studio and pulling on his jeans, Arthur will be guarded and professional again. The thought of it makes Merlin want to cry.

 

 

## V.

Merlin’s busy with press, but in the tiny interludes he has for himself he finds himself scrolling through their message history or replying to whatever Arthur’s decided he wants to argue about today.

One day, he types:

 **M:** _Miss me?_

Arthur replies with a sad emoji. It irks Merlin; he can’t for the life of him put his finger on why, but in his annoyance he does one better and sends flowers to Arthur.

When Arthur gets them, he sends a photo with _!!!!!!!!_ as the caption. Then:

 **A:** _They’ve pissed off Morgana. She can’t guess who they’re from._

 **M:** _My secret is safe with you, then_.                  

 **A:** _Is it a secret?_

Merlin leaves Arthur on read.

He wakes up to find this GIF waiting for him:

 

 

## VI.

The next morning, he steels himself and calls.

“We’ve done sexting,” Merlin says. “We haven’t tried phone sex, though.”

“Uhm,” the voice at the end of the line says, which is decidedly not Arthur. “Mr. Pendragon isn’t available at the moment.”

“Shit, Leon, I’m really sorry – Jesus, sorry, I meant to call Arthur’s mobile—”

“It’s quite alright,” Leon says, though he still sounds mildly traumatised. “So, uh, I guess the flowers were from you?”

“Yes,” Merlin grits out. “This is humiliating, by the way.”

“Well.” There’s a pause. “Look, I’d best get on but – Mr. Emrys, I won’t tell a soul.”

“About Arthur and I?” Not that Merlin doubts quiet, steady Leon, the foil to Arthur’s restlessness. He just wants to avoid the press nightmare and Gaius lecturing him down the phone. “Not that there is ‘Arthur and I’. It’s casual. I mean, we haven’t talked about it—”

“You sent flowers,” Leon says, confused.

“The room needed a pop of colour,” Merlin blurts, and then, with a swift “sorry, have to go—” he hangs up.

 

 

## VII.

The European rounds of the press junket exhaust Merlin; his replies to Arthur’s texts are sporadic or non-existent, but Arthur still messages at least once a day, normally lewd comments about how Merlin looks in the clothes.

Once, he sent a photo of the dying flowers. _Am doing my best_ , Arthur wrote. _Send ones that last next time._

 _Ha, ha_ , was Merlin’s reply, followed by a bunch of flower emojis. _Those won’t die. Keep them safe_.

The next day his phone pings.

 **?:** _So you’re the one Arthur’s besotted with_.

 **M:** _Who’s this?_

Merlin almost drops his phone when a selfie of Morgana appears. Somehow she’s scarier glowing through the dark of his hotel room than she is in real life.

 **M:** _HOW DID YOU GET MY NUMBER?_

 **Mo:** _Arthur hasn’t changed his passcode for years_.

_And Leon wants to shag me_

Merlin stares at the message and the others that pop up after it, but thinking back to how Leon looked at her, Merlin can’t blame him. Merlin probably looks at Arthur like that.

 **Mo:** _If you hurt him, I will end you._

_As if that wasn’t obvious._

_Try Nagisa, by the way_

_Round the corner from your hotel_

 _They do the best sushi_.       

“What the actual fuck?” Merlin rereads the conversation to check it has actually occurred within the last two minutes, in this dimension.

 **Mo:** _xoxo_

Merlin looks at the last message despairingly.

 **M:** _got it._

   _btw – besotted?_

Then, to Arthur:

 **M:** _CHANGE THE PASSCODE ON YOUR PHONE_

He adds siren and explosion emojis to make a point, and less than a minute later:

 **A** : _… done?_

 ** **M** : **_too late. Morgana knows_.

 **A** :

 

 

## VIII.

Merlin answers without checking the caller display.

“Merlin?”

“Arthur,” Merlin says, and he does a piss-poor job of hiding his surprise. “Hi.”

“I didn’t wake you, did I? I checked the time difference—”

“S’alright, I was just watching _Friends,_  eating ice cream in copious quantities...”

“Leon told me about your call,” Arthur says quickly, and it’s so uncharacteristic for Arthur that Merlin clutches the phone tighter. This is going to be excruciating. “He told Morgana, so it was fair game, after that.”

“I am a fool.”         

“Hmm.”

“An idiot.”

“Yes. Absolutely.”

“And I’m sorry I sent the flowers.”

“Oh. Why?” Arthur sounds surprised – no, _hurt_ , because when did they ever _talk_ about – about _this_?

“It was – out of the blue.”

“I liked them,” Arthur bites out. “It was a nice gesture.”

“Because you’re my stylist.”

There’s a stony silence, and then Arthur sighs. “Sure,” he says, and hangs up.

 

 

## IX.

Arthur stops texting after that. Merlin can’t blame him.

When he’s feeling particularly self-pitying, Merlin reads Morgana’s reply to his _btw – besotted?_ text.

 **Mo:** _he’s pining, obviously_

_you sent him flowers_

_FLOWERS. what did you think would happen_

_and he’s actually trying to take care of them_

_add ^ to flagrant violation of any service/client relationship, which is NOT LIKE ARTHUR AT ALL_

_I mean it’s obvious you’ve fucked_

_and I’d say he’s fallen for you._

With press coming to an end, Merlin sends more flowers. After they arrived, his phone pings, and he checks it eagerly only to see:

 **Mo:** _you’re going to need more than that_.

_you fucked, remember._

Dejected, Merlin types:                   

 **M:** _fucked UP, actually_

The reply is almost instant.        

**Mo:** _FIX. IT. I don’t care how_

_this your last chance, by the way._

“How did my life come to this?” Merlin says out loud, just as his phone pings again.

 **Mo:** _how was the sushi?_

 

 

## X.

He gets back to London on a Sunday and heads to Arthur’s after a quick detour. When the door opens, Merlin peers around the mass of flowers pressed against his chest.

“I like you,” he says, already feeling his verbal vomit kicking in at the sight of Arthur in a worn t-shirt and jeans, eyes wide behind his glasses. “And not just, _you_ , you know, but I like you. You’re an arse, and I don’t understand your fashion sense, and I’m terrible at communication and cues, apparently, but I want to take you for dinner. Or a date—”

Arthur’s kisses him, flowers be damned.

“Ugh, you are a _maddening_ , impossible idiot,” Arthur says, when they come up for air. He adjusts his glasses and, after a beat of silence, says: “I missed you.”

“I missed you, too.”

“But Merlin, I swear, if you mess me around—”

“I won’t. I couldn’t hurt you again.”                 

“And you have to send flowers every week.”

“What is this, a contract? …Fine.”

“ _Communication_.” Arthur has that know-it-all smirk on his face, the one that makes Merlin’s stomach do somersaults. “So far we have, don’t fuck me over, send me flowers every week, and finally – I quit. You won’t find anyone half as good as me.”

“But you like finding me things to wear.”

“I like it best when you wear nothing at all,” Arthur says, and he pulls Merlin inside.

 

 

 

 


End file.
